Such control did not come easily to him, though, for he was very proud of the way his father had outwitted the Franks at every turn, luring them into this mad march to Tiberias, letting the sun and heat fight for him, sending his men to divide their army by cutting off the rearguard and the vanguard, isolating their king on the slopes of Haṭṭīn. And now it was about to end in a glorious triumph. He felt truly blessed that he would be a witness to such a historic happening, the expulsion of the unbelievers from their land just as the sultan had promised.
And so, when the Franks launched a desperate charge toward the sultan, his son watched with more interest than alarm—until he realized that they might actually reach their target. Glancing quickly toward his father, he was shaken to see the older man’s reaction; he’d paled noticeably and was tugging at his beard, a familiar habit in moments of stress. Drawing his sword, he spurred his stallion forward, crying out, “Give the lie to the Devil!” Following him, al-Afdal was greatly relieved to see their men rallying to the sultan, fighting so fiercely that they stopped the momentum of the infidel knights and then forced them back up the hill.
Reining in beside his father, al-Afdal could not stifle his joy. “We have routed them!”
His father shook his head, saying only, “Not yet.”
Al-Afdal was unconvinced, but he lapsed into a dutiful silence as his father conferred with a messenger from Taqī al-Dīn, reporting that their infantry had climbed the northern hill and surrounded the infidel foot soldiers who’d taken refuge there, killing some and taking captive the ones who surrendered. The sultan sent word to his nephew to attack the knights who’d fled back to the southern hill, saying he would join in the assault, and al-Afdal kept close to his side, hoping that he’d at last get a chance to bloody his sword.
He soon saw that the Franks were not yet beaten, for they launched a second charge and this one, too, came dangerously close to the sultan. But Taqī al-Dīn had reached the slope between the two horns by now and the infidels were driven back again. Seeing them retreat, al-Afdal gave an exultant shout. “We have beaten them!”
His father turned on him with a rare flash of anger. “Be quiet, ‘Ȧlī! We have not beaten them until their tent falls!”
Al-Afdal subsided, startled by the realization that the sultan still feared victory might be denied them. His cousin’s men were swarming up the hill now, and as they watched, a rider swung his sword at the guy ropes and the red tent collapsed into the dirt. All around al-Afdal, men were cheering and laughing, but when he turned toward his father, he saw that Salāh al-Dīn had dismounted. When he raised his face to the heavens, his son could see the tears spilling from his eyes. Then he did something that al-Afdal would never forget. Kneeling, he prostrated himself on the ground to give thanks to Allah for their triumph over the unbelievers.
* * *
Salāh al-Dīn had decided that on the morrow he would return to Tiberias to accept the Countess of Tripoli’s surrender of her castle while sending their thousands of prisoners on their long, bleak journey to Damascus and the varying fates that awaited them—eventual freedom for those who could ransom themselves; slavery for those who could not; death for the captive Templars, Hospitallers, and turcopoles. The sultan believed the military knights were too dangerous to live and the turcopoles were traitors to their own blood. But tonight, the Saracens would camp at Haṭṭīn to treat their wounded, bury their dead, and rejoice in the overwhelming nature of their victory. Now all of the infidel kingdom lay undefended before them, including the city as sacred to their faith as it was to the Christians.
* * *
A large crowd of Salāh al-Dīn’s soldiers had gathered outside his tent, eager to express their gratitude for his blessed victory against the unbelievers. For now, though, he was alone with al-Afdal, Taqī al-Dīn, Gökböri, his Mamluk bodyguard, and his chancellor, ‘Imād al-Dīn, who was already composing the sultan’s letter to al-‘Ādil, sharing the news of Haṭṭīn and summoning him from Egypt to join them on their triumphant conquest of the lands of the Franks. There was also an honored guest, the amir of the holy city of Medina, fortunate enough to be an eyewitness to history. Cooks were busy preparing a celebratory feast. But first there would be a reckoning with their highborn prisoners and he sent men to have the most influential of the Franks brought before him.
When the captive lords were escorted into the tent, al-Afdal edged over to ‘Imād al-Dīn’s side, knowing the voluble chancellor would be the best source of information about these adversaries of Islam. ‘Imād al-Dīn was happy to oblige, identifying them as they were prodded forward. The one who seemed dazed was their hapless king, and next to him was his brother, their constable. Behind them was the grand master of the Templars, may Allah curse them all. The old, white-haired one was the Marquis of Montferrat. The youth who looked more like a poet than a warrior was Humphrey de Toron, who was of interest because he spoke good Arabic. But the one who mattered the most to the sultan was the man on the other side of their king, Reynald de Chatillon, whose wickedness knew no bounds, their greatest enemy.
Al-Afdal stared with unabashed curiosity at the infidel lord they called Prince Arnat, for he’d heard stories since his childhood of Arnat’s evil deeds. He broke truces with impunity, raided their caravans, even dared to threaten the holy cities of Mecca and Medina, supposedly with the intention to seize the body of the Prophet, the most blasphemous act al-Afdal could imagine. He’d been told Arnat was old, past sixty, and had wondered how he could still fight at an age that seemed so ancient to him. But the Frank appeared to be defying time as he’d often defied al-Afdal’s father. His spine was straight, his shoulders squared, his step firm, with only the grey in his dark hair and the web of wrinkles around his eyes testifying to six decades of a life filled with adventures, risk-taking, and violence.
Arnat also seemed to be in better shape than the other lords. They looked drained and bleary-eyed, beaten down by thirst, heat, and fighting for two days under a burning sun. Al-Afdal felt a tingle of superstitious unease, for how could Arnat emerge unscathed from such an ordeal? Was he truly in league with the Devil, as his enemies claimed? But a closer look revealed the truth, that Arnat was sustained by arrogance and a rancor so malevolent it could overcome a man’s natural fear of dying.
Salāh al-Dīn had met most of the Poulain lords at one time or another, but this was his first encounter with Guy de Lusignan. He studied Guy intently for a moment, marveling that a man so well-meaning could have wreaked such havoc. He’d never doubted the courage of the Franks and he knew that some of them were men of honor. He respected the d’Ibelin brothers and Denys de Grenier, whose Arabic was fluent enough to read Saracen poetry. He had never truly trusted the Count of Tripoli, although he thought Raymond was one of the most intelligent of the Franks. That could never be said of Guy. Yet he did not lack for courage, and the sultan bore him no grudge. He was amused now to realize that he even felt something oddly like gratitude to de Lusignan. After all, their victory at Haṭṭīn could never have happened without him.
A secret smile flitted across his mouth at the sheer incongruity of that thought. Turning to a servant, he told the man to offer a jallab to the king of the Franks, who looked very thirsty.
Guy spoke no Arabic and so was taken by surprise when a man approached with a tray and a golden goblet. During their hours on the Horns of Haṭṭīn, he and his knights had been able to catch tormenting glimpses of the Sea of Galilee in the distance, the lake shimmering like a mirage to the thirst-crazed men. Guy felt like that now as he stared at the goblet, almost afraid to reach for it in case it, too, was a mirage. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the cup from the tray, tilted it to his lips, and drank. He imagined this was how liquid gold must taste, and as the precious liquid trickled down his throat, he was sure no drink would ever be more delicious. With self-control that pleased him, he kept himself from draining the cup, turning and offering it to the man closest to him
.
Watching as Reynald de Chatillon took several deep swallows, Guy hoped he’d leave enough for Amaury, belatedly regretting not having offered it first to his brother. Well, he could ask for more. But as he turned back toward the sultan, he saw that his benevolent host was gone, replaced by a man showing sudden anger, dark eyes as piercing as daggers. Guy stiffened before he saw that Salāh al-Dīn’s daunting stare was aimed at Reynald de Chatillon.
After a very tense moment, the sultan gestured toward Humphrey de Toron. “Tell your king that I did not give him permission to share the drink with that accursed man. When he drank, it was none of my doing.”
Humphrey hastily complied. He saw at once that Guy did not understand the significance of the sultan’s words, knowing little of Saracen culture or their tradition of hospitality. He also saw that Reynald understood perfectly, for his mouth had twisted into a defiant smile. Moving closer to Guy, Humphrey did his best to warn the king what was about to happen.
“When the Saracens offer a man food or drink, sire, they are offering, too, a promise of his safety. If he is allowed to eat, he knows he will not be harmed as long as he remains under their roof.”
Guy frowned, still slow to comprehend, for his brain felt as bruised as his body and all he wanted at that moment was to drink until he could not swallow another drop and then fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, waking up to find none of this had really happened. Seeing his confusion, Humphrey opened his mouth to try again. But time had run out.
Salāh al-Dīn rose to his feet, keeping his eyes upon Reynald. “You have broken oaths and truces, committed grave offenses against our faith, and proven again and again that you cannot be trusted. Have you any defense to offer?”
Reynald did not wait for Humphrey to translate the sultan’s words. “I have done only what princes have always done,” he shot back, in passable Arabic, making the words sound more offensive by his disdainful tone and the curl of his lip.
The sultan’s hand had dropped to the hilt of his sword. Glancing toward Humphrey, he spoke too swiftly for Reynald to follow all of it. But he heard the word Shahāda and that was enough, for he knew what it meant—the testimony of faith. Under Muslim law, a man about to be executed must be given the chance to convert and thus save his life.
Humphrey turned from the sultan to Reynald. “Did you understand that? He’ll spare your life if you say the testimony of faith.” While the offer was grudgingly made, Humphrey felt sure that the sultan would honor it. To save himself, Reynald need only bear witness that there is no God but Allah and Muḥammad is the Messenger of Allah. But Humphrey knew what his hated stepfather would do; he’d never passed a bridge without wanting to burn it.
Reynald gave him a look of almost affectionate contempt. “No need to ask what you’d do in my place, is there? Tell him this for me, little lordling. No . . . I’ll tell him myself.” Raising his head, he stared challengingly at the sultan. “I would never embrace a vile, false faith like yours,” he said with a sneer, wishing he had enough saliva to spit in the Saracen’s face. That was to be his last coherent thought, for Salāh al-Dīn’s sword was clearing its scabbard.
The blade sliced downward into Reynald’s neck, nearly severing his arm at the shoulder and splashing blood over the closest men, Guy and Humphrey. As they recoiled, one of the sultan’s Mamluk bodyguards came forward without haste, swung his sword, and beheaded the dying man. Grasping the body by the ankles, he dragged it toward the tent entrance, coming back a few moments later for the head.
To Humphrey, the strangest aspect of the execution was that it had been done in silence. Reynald had died too quickly to cry out. The other Franks were stunned, and the Saracens were only now beginning to talk among themselves in growing excitement, for they all shared the sultan’s hatred of Reynald de Chatillon. A tall man with the sharp features of a hawk was complaining, half jokingly, that he ought to have been given the honor of slaying the infidel pig. Humphrey guessed that this was Taqī al-Dīn, just as he assumed that the youth with eyes as wide as moons was the sultan’s son. Gazing down at the blood pooling on the tent rug, he thought, My mother is now a widow for the third time, and two of the three died by violence. How unlucky is that? It will take a brave man to be willing to step into so many dead men’s shoes. Or one so eager to be the Lord of Kerak that he’ll risk it. But he remembered then that the next Lord of Kerak was likely to be one of the sultan’s kinsmen.
Salāh al-Dīn roused himself to nod and smile when the amir of Medina thanked him for the honor of witnessing the death of the devil, Arnat. He realized he was still holding his bloodied sword and delighted his son by saying, “Look after this for me, ‘Ȧlī.” It was only then that his gaze fell upon Jerusalem’s captive king.
Guy de Lusignan stood as if rooted to the spot. His eyes were glazed and unfocused and he appeared unaware that some of Reynald’s blood had splattered his surcote, even matting his hair. When Salāh al-Dīn approached him, Guy seemed mesmerized by the red smear on the sultan’s forehead, where he’d dipped his finger in Reynald’s blood as a symbolic gesture to show he’d taken his revenge. Guy’s hands had clenched into fists, not in aggression but in an attempt to conceal the involuntary tremors shaking his body. Salāh al-Dīn saw his fear, though he did not think less of the other man for it. In his ignorance of his enemy, Guy would naturally assume he’d be the next to die.
“Come and sit beside me,” he said, taking Guy’s arm and guiding him toward the cushions. Once they were seated, the sultan waited until his apprehensive prisoner had been given another jallab before calling Humphrey over to translate. “Tell him that I had sworn an oath to kill that man for his transgressions. But reassure him that he need not fear for his own life. Kings do not kill kings.”
CHAPTER 49
August 1187
Jerusalem, Outremer
When Humphrey had suggested to Isabella that she remain in Jerusalem, she’d been delighted to escape Kerak. Sybilla invited her to stay at the palace and their relationship quickly changed. They’d been strangers, for they’d spent little time together and the thirteen-year gap between them had mattered much more during Isabella’s childhood. Now that Sybilla saw her as grown since she’d been wedded and bedded and no longer considered her a rival for the crown, they were able to take their first tentative steps toward a genuine sisterhood. But then the world as they’d known it was forever changed on a sweltering July day in the barren hills of Galilee.
On this August afternoon seven weeks after the battle at Haṭṭīn, Isabella had ventured out into the alien, chaotic city that Jerusalem had become, paying a duty call upon her husband’s mother. She was now making her way along St. Stephen’s Street toward her own mother’s town house, but even with an escort—Maria’s mainstay, her towering eunuch, Michael—it was like struggling against an oncoming tide. Jerusalem was overflowing with refugees and every day saw more arrive, the Holy City’s population doubling from its normal thirty thousand to more than sixty thousand.
Her visit with Stephanie de Milly had been an awkward one. They had little to say to each other, yet they were bound by their shared fear for Humphrey, and despite her dislike for the older woman, Isabella pitied her, too. Many wives still did not know the fate of their husbands; Stephanie did. The story of Reynald’s execution by Saladin’s own hand had spread swiftly, growing more dramatic with each retelling, making him into a martyr who’d died for his faith. Isabella would never forgive him for scarring Humphrey’s soul with his casual cruelties, but she knew Stephanie wept for him in the privacy of their marriage bed.
Isabella was tired, for it was a long walk from Stephanie’s dwelling in the Armenian Quarter to Maria’s town house; the streets were so clogged with pedestrians that it was almost impossible to travel on horseback. She could not return to the palace, though, for her mother was expecting her. After Maria had reached Jerusalem with her children, household, and many of the citizens of Nablus,
she had been hurt when her eldest daughter remained at the palace with Sybilla. Isabella explained that Sybilla had asked her to stay, but she’d not known how to explain that Sybilla needed her more than Maria did. Her mother was one of the strongest women she’d ever known, whereas Sybilla seemed like a lost wraith, tormented by fear for Guy and her young daughters, bewildered and dazed and still in denial, unable to admit that her husband’s blunders at Haṭṭīn had doomed their kingdom.
When they finally reached Maria’s town house, Isabella was waylaid by Dame Alicia. “You must hurry, my lady,” she exclaimed. “He is abovestairs with the queen and she said you should join them as soon as you arrive.” Although Isabella had no idea who “he” was, she hastened into the stairwell, already nervous. Since Haṭṭīn, the news had been nothing but bad.
Maria was sitting on the settle with a stranger, a man clad in Saracen garb who looked as if he could walk the streets of Damascus without attracting attention. He rose as Isabella entered, greeting her with the polished courtesy of a Poulain lord, and she suddenly knew who he must be—the legendary spymaster Bernard. Her knees going weak, she let him steer her toward the settle, where she closed her eyes in a swift, silent prayer that he had not come to tell her Humphrey or Pateras was dead. She knew Humphrey had survived the battle and was likely to be ransomed, yet men did sicken and die in captivity. Balian’s fate was less certain. They’d heard rumors that he’d escaped the slaughter and had been seen in Tyre in mid-July, but his presence there had not been confirmed and until it was, she and her mother would know no peace of mind.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 80
